


Hidden Tracks

by ruethereal



Series: VIP Only [2]
Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bonus ficlets from the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/481214/chapters/836741">Welcome to Our World</a> universe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Giddy Up! G-H-E-T-T-O E-L-E-C-T-R-O

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feat. 2PM

Neither of them likes breaking their unspoken, unwritten rules. But last night… Last night had been a necessary exception. Those six shitheads had no right bringing their hundred-won-a-dozen skank train and poser entourage into _their_ club. Especially when Jiyong and Seunghyun had only just shown up themselves, Seunghyun thirsty for alcohol and Jiyong itching for the dance floor.

“I think I pulled something,” Jiyong whines, reaching helplessly to rub between his shoulder blades.

“Come here.”

Seunghyun chuckles fondly when the younger man eagerly turns in his seat, scooting backwards across the couch until he’s practically sitting in Seunghyun’s lap. Well, why go about it half-assed? So Seunghyun brackets both Jiyong’s hips and tugs gently.

“I said come _here_.”

This time Jiyong laughs, but complies just as eagerly, settling himself between the older man’s thighs. Seunghyun allows himself a moment to wonder at just how small Jiyong is, not even needing both his hands to span across Jiyong’s back, before getting to work on the knotted muscles with the heels of his hands. Jiyong shivers appreciatively, and Seunghyun feels himself smile.

He leans forward so he can whisper against the spot behind Jiyong’s ear, “It’s because you overdid it last night, Yongie.”

Jiyong shivers violently before mumbling, “Speak for yourself. You let me have only two of them, stingy bastard.”

Seunghyun just hums noncommittally in answer, burying his nose into the baby-fine hair at Jiyong’s nape.

Last night, they broke a few too many of their unwritten, unspoken rules: women only; unless it’s impossible, no dirty hands; unless it’s impossible, keep it in the condo; unless it’s impossible, leave no traces. But why go about things half-assed, right? Instead of just one of the men, they’d dealt with all six. They’d left their kid-suede gloves at home because last night had been a pleasure not business outing (luckily they’d found golf clubs in the fuckers’ shared limo). Neither felt like bothering to go any farther than the basement garage. Lastly, neither felt like bothering to move the bodies any farther than piling them into the service elevator (no CCTV).

“Who the fuck rolls into the club on a Tuesday night in a limo?” Jiyong scoffs, mid-purr.

Seunghyun’s laugh ruffles the younger man’s hair.

“Get over it, will you?” he puffs down Jiyong’s shirt, and this time Jiyong’s legs tremble against his.

Several minutes pass, silent save for whenever Seunghyun’s fingers ease a particularly tender area of Jiyong’s back, eliciting a soft hiss or moan or ‘Yeah, there’ from the younger man.

“Pity, though,” Jiyong somewhat-says, mostly-sighs.

“What is?”

“I kinda liked the light-up jackets they had. You know, the jack-toothed neanderthal who had the poor man’s version of your shaved eyebrow, and the blonde with ass cheeks on his face and a shithole for a mouth. I wonder where they got them from. I bet we could wear them better.”

“You calling me a jack-toothed neanderthal and yourself ass-faced?”

But it’s a good thing Jiyong can’t see Seunghyun’s grin. Because Seunghyun secretly broke one rule more than Jiyong had: no trophies. He just hopes Jiyong doesn't mind hand-me-downs.


	2. In This World Full of Lies, Dream of Love and Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feat. 2NE1

“Changed a bit, hasn’t it?”

Seunghyun just grunts, taking another long pull from his beer, another long drag from his cigarette.

In another one of his strange, rare moments of nostalgia, Jiyong had suggested they take the night off from hunting in favor of revisiting their more-rebellious-than-glamorous teenhood with a pack of cheap cigarettes and a pack of cheap longnecks to share. Never mind the fact that Jiyong drove them to the still-abandoned warehouse in his Bentley.

“Feels like I need an angry vagina to be within a hundred miles of this place.”

This, at least, gets a snort out of Seunghyun.

“We could just leave, you know.”

The warehouse used to be where Jiyong would drag Seunghyun during his intolerable but thankfully short-lived I’m-punk-rock phase in middle school for hours of belligerently drunk bullyboy screaming into microphones about being jaded and/or misunderstood (though more often than not the only thing misunderstood about Jiyong at 15 was that he’d wanted _that_ Rolex not _this_ Rolex for his birthday) or beating on drums or epileptic thrashing of extremities.

Sitting on the gravelly parking lot asphalt, backs against the front bumper of the Bentley, headlights glaring from either side of them onto the concrete wall, they can hear that nothing much has changed.

What _has_ changed, though, is that the bullyboys have become bully _girls_ , the higher-pitched screaming more often than not focused on not being as pretty as other girls or on not care-care-caring that a pretty boy is afraid of commitment.

Jiyong drains his bottle of no-longer-cold beer then flings it at the side of the building. The glass catches the light from his Bentley as it shatters into a miniature, millisecond-long fireworks display.

“Remember that one time I showed up in a straitjacket?”

Seunghyun chuckles appreciatively.

“Was that before or after I showed up dressed as a cop?”

Jiyong flicks his cigarette butt, it too momentarily caught in the highbeams before disappearing in a dead and naked bush.

“Before. I did it for Christmas; you did it for New Year’s.”

They lapse into a silence that would be silent if not for the continued shrieking and wailing. It’s peaceful nonetheless.

Jiyong gets as far as flipping open his Zippo to light Seunghyun’s (twelfth, the greedy bastard, smoking more than his half) cigarette and opening his mouth to thank the older man for accompanying him on his impromptu field trip into the business district, when the door of the loading dock crashes open. Startled, Seunghyun spits out the unlit cigarette and Jiyong drops his lighter.

And it’s like something out of the weird cartoon Jiyong glimpsed while channel surfing the other night, when four girls swagger out of the warehouse, all of them dressed in similarly torn and frayed clothing and coated in fluorescent paint and half-hidden behind facemasks.

“Holy fuck—”

If Jiyong still had use of his vocal chords, he would ask Seunghyun if he’s swearing because of the sudden appearance and seemingly slow-motion approach of the females, or because of the fact that their approach is marked by the blinding and deafening yet contained explosions going off in the warehouse.

But he doesn’t, so he just wraps his fingers around the older man’s wrist. Or maybe he does.

“Holy _fuck_ —”

If Jiyong still had use of his brain, he would ask himself if he’s swearing because he really wants the studded Misfits jacket one of them is wearing, or because all four women are armed in some form or another.

But it seems he has enough brain function to run a quick inventory, coming up with a baseball bat, assault rifle, poodle, brass knuckles, industrial pliers—

“Was that a—?”

Jiyong tightens his hold a bit.

“Yeah,” he gasps. “Toaster.”

Indeed, one of the oncoming girls had just thrown a discarded toaster through the glass windows of the neighboring abandoned building.

With the destructive foursome standing over them, Jiyong’s never felt so small. Luckily, they seem content simply staring down at the two grown men shitting their pants and unable to scramble into the Bentley.

Then one of them—the short-haired one who’d used the toaster for a shotput—tugs down her mask, hooking it under her chin and revealing a surprisingly pretty face, all cheeks and twinkling eyes and pouty lips of an obviously tender age and at odds with her supposed gang hobbies.

Her voice is as commanding as it is sweet when she chirrups, “Say, ‘na na na na.’ ”

So they do.


	3. Minds Spinning 'Cause You're Pretty Just Like That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feat. Kim Ryeowook and Cho Kyuhyun (Super Junior)

Seunghyun isn’t sorry-sorry that he’s not naughty-naughty enough to like gay bars.

But then Jiyong told him it was more a jazz-and-wine-tasting bar than a gay one and proudly brought out their newly-purchased-without-first-consulting-Seunghyun couple outfits—a white jacket with yellow-ringed cuffs for Seunghyun, a white trench coat with pink piping (not to mention a stupid and adorable felt top hat) for Jiyong—and Seunghyun simply couldn’t say no.

Seunghyun had convinced himself that he was only going for the wine and to break in his new jacket. But then, several glasses in, Jiyong had started dancing with himself, and Seunghyun had to reluctantly correct himself.

 _With_ himself, not _by_ himself.

Because even if his head wasn’t hazy with sweet, sweet rouge and the air in the bar with cigar smoke, Seunghyun would probably still confuse the two men swaying with each other on the otherwise empty makeshift dance floor.

“Wookie’s not usually like this,” the man across the small stained-glass table from him murmurs so reverently Seunghyun feels as if he’s intruding on the stranger’s innermost thoughts.

No, not stranger. ‘Q,’ he’d introduced himself as, not an hour ago, when they four entered the bar together with only a single table left to share.

“Nor’s Yongie,” he says, tightening his fingers around the stem of his glass.

It isn’t a total lie. Jiyong, after all, has until now shown a preference for sweaty, noisy clubs with epileptic-seizure-inducing light shows while rolling on ecstasy. But this, Seunghyun hopes, is a change in taste that stays with the younger man.

Jiyong had minutes ago slithered out of his trench coat, draping it playfully over Seunghyun’s head, to claim the fifteen-square-feet of space allotted directly before the band. Q’s companion, ‘Ryeowook’ had tossed his head back with a laugh made clear and crystalline by the bar’s acoustics, had tossed his military jacket over Q’s lap to join Jiyong.

And it wasn’t until then, Jiyong and Ryeowook doused in the bar’s muted, caramel-tinted lights, Jiyong and Ryeowook melded together from chest to knee, limbs and sweat-sheen skin untraceable to their owners, that Seunghyun comes to the heady revelation that the two men look as if they’d been carefully and artfully lifted from the same gorgeous mold.

Seunghyun looks at Ryeowook with his auburn hair cropped shorter at the sides and back, in a mesh tank top that threatens to slip off a taut shoulder, and all that’s missing are jeans so distressed they reveal more than encase his pale, slender thighs—all he sees is Jiyong. That Jiyong’s face is softer while Ryeowook’s is sharper, that their frames are the reverse, are negligible to Seunghyun.

And he’s not in the least jealous or threatened, but entranced by the sensual and sensuous display just a dozen footsteps away from him.

And no matter how small the two men are individually, the small space they occupy implodes around them, as if it has an atmosphere of its own, charged and possessive, both to keep the two bodies made singular for itself and to consume the breath and attention of every onlooker.

It’s kinetic, an energy sustained by constant contact.

And Seunghyun wonders if this means he and Q are alike.

“So, TOP, do you dance?”

Seunghyun combats the pull of the two men for a moment, finding Q gazing raptly at the newly-shifted-to-some-nameless-gay-bar center of the universe, lines of his face even more regal, statuesque from the side.

And Seunghyun wonders if Q sees Ryeowook in Jiyong.

“Can’t for the life of me, really.”

He watches as Q casts him a brief sidelong glance, mouth pulling into a small smirk.

“Same here.”


End file.
